Fear

Anxiety. That's what characterizes the hours before ten o'clock every Monday and Wednesday morning. For shortly, I will be taking a "long walk off a short pier," a "short drop with a surprising stop," a "leap of faith." That's what it seems like when I go to learn springboard diving, anyway. Death by flopping.

Diving began centuries ago as gymnasts moved their equipment to the beaches during the summer months in an effort to beat the heat. Put enough competitive people that close to the water, and something is bound to come out of it. And thus, the sport of diving emerged.

Over the previous spring term, I had the opportunity to take a beginning gymnastics class, so I thought I'd be well prepared to dive into this new sport. When I got to the end of the board on the first day, however, it seemed that everything Keith was asking me to do now was backwards of what I ought to do. So my dive on day one looked something like this: (start at 0:35)

Well, I wish it had looked like that. Instead, it actually looked more like this:

Learning to dive is exhilarating and terrifying. I could listen to Keith tell me how to do an inward dive all day, but learning to do it came down to a lot of trial and painful error.

The part of my experience most relevant to this class is the way Keith teaches diving. He never wears swim trunks. He never steps onto the board. He demonstrates the jump on the deck, he exudes confidence, and he tells me exactly what I need to do differently after each dive. "If you do what I say, you will be safe and successful," he affirms. Regrettably I did not ask him about how he learned to dive (I was a little preoccupied with learning the hurdle step to think about it), but I hope to do a follow up post when I do get a chance to ask him.